Night Film

66

“Fuck, man,” said the taxi driver, “you scared the shit outta me. I thought you were here to deport me.” He cackled with laughter, revealing a set of blinding white teeth, a few capped in gold. He scratched his red-and-yellow Rasta cap as he studied Ashley’s picture.

“Yah, sure. I did pick her up here.”

“When?” I asked.

“Coupla weeks ago?”

“What color coat was she wearing?” interjected Nora.

He thought it over, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin.

“Greenish brown? But I’m color-blind, man.”

He called himself Zeb. He was black — from Jamaica, I guessed from his slight accent—66, lean yet disheveled and slouched, like a palm tree after a mild hurricane.

During the past hour, as Nora and I waited, we’d managed to stitch together some basic information. He came to Golden Way five nights a week for dinner. He ate outside, leaning against the hood of his cab, playing loud music with the windows unrolled, and then took off, doubtlessly resuming his all-night driving shift, which ended at 7:00 A.M.

“When I got here,” Zeb went on, scratching his head, “she was in da back talkin’ to da old lady. I got my dinner. She followed me outside.”

“And you drove her somewhere?”

“Yah.”

“Do you remember where?”

He thought it over. “Some big-ass house on the Upper East.”

“Could you take us there now?”

“Oh, no.” He held up a hand. “Da stops and starts all bleed together when you drive.”

“We’ll pay you,” blurted Nora.

He perked up. “You’ll pay da meter?”

Nora nodded.

“Okay. Sure. We can do that.”

Grinning, as if he couldn’t believe his luck, Zeb cheerfully grabbed a foam container and began to load it with noodles, egg rolls, sesame chicken — if it was chicken; the gray meat looked like the siopao or cat in a steamed bun I’d once eaten by accident in Hong Kong. Astonishing how quickly money jogged a man’s memory.

Nora and I headed outside to wait.

“This is going to be expensive,” I muttered, squinting farther down Market Street, where a lone man was shuffling toward us. Instantly I recognized the gray wool coat and the cigarette.

“Look who decided to make an appearance.”

Nora, unabashedly worried, grilled him on why he’d stood us up this morning. “We waited for you. I almost called the police.”

“I had things to do,” Hopper said unconvincingly.

He looked like he’d been up all night. I was beginning to realize the key to his behavior could be found in his own description of Morgan Devold: He’s coming back. He has to. He’s dying to talk about her.

Nora eagerly filled him in on the latest. In no time, the three of us were tearing up Park Avenue crammed into the backseat of a taxi with a steering wheel covered in blue shag and a rearview mirror wearing more gold chains than Mr. T. I leaned forward to study Zeb’s picture ID — his full name was Zebulaniah Akpunku — noticing a worn-out paperback, Steppin’ Into the Good Life, on the passenger seat beside him.

“Did you notice anything unusual about the girl?” I asked Zeb through the bulletproof window.

He shrugged. “She was a white girl. They all kinda look alike.” He guffawed happily, quieting only to take a bite of his food.

“Did she talk to you? Anything you can tell us about her?”

“No way, man. I got one rule as a driver.”

“What’s that?”

“Never look in da rearview mirror.”

“Never?” We drifted into the left-hand lane, cutting off a cab.

“It’s not healthy to keep a’ watchin’ what you leavin’ behind.”

Ten minutes later, we were weaving our way up and down every street in the East Sixties between Madison and Lexington. The meter ticked from twenty dollars to thirty, forty.

“Oh, yeah, dis is right,” Zeb would say, leaning forward to scrutinize the quiet rows of townhouses until he’d reach the end of the block. “Shit. I got it wrong.” He’d sigh in apparent frustration, then cheerfully help himself to more sesame chicken. “No worries, man. It’s da next block.”

But the same thing happened on the next block. And the next.

After another fifteen minutes, the meter was $60.25. Nora was gnawing her fingernails, and Hopper hadn’t said a word the entire ride, slumped against the seat, staring out the window.

I was about to call it off when, as we were cruising down East Seventy-first, Zeb abruptly slammed on the brakes.

“Dat’s it!” He was indicating a building on our left.

It sat entirely in the dark, a massive townhouse that looked more like an embassy than a residence — pale gray limestone, twenty-five feet wide. It was weathered and run-down, dead leaves strewn across the front steps, the double doors littered with takeout menus — a sure indication no one had been there for weeks.

“We already drove down here,” I said.

“I’m telling you. Dat’s the house.”

“All right.” I opened the door, and we climbed out. I handed Zeb eighty bucks.

“Peace out, brother.”

Zeb happily tucked the money into his shirt pocket, alongside what looked to be a gigantic half-smoked joint. He turned up the Rolling Stones, and though there was a yellow light at the intersection — yellow lights to Zeb were cues to floor it and pray—he barreled out into Park Avenue in a noisy clanging of loose parts and stuttering transmission, the trunk thudding as he blasted over a pothole and swerved south, leaving us on the quiet street.